


This Endless Distraction

by keelywolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Frottage, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Sherlock wants to focus on is the work. Is it his fault that John is such a distraction?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Endless Distraction

"Sherlock, what is all over the countertop?" 

Sherlock didn't open his eyes. He kept his fingertips pressed to his lips, flexed his bare toes against the arm of the sofa where he was currently sprawled. John's tone was not yet to dangerous levels of stridency and thus, a response was not required. The case was currently his focus, the woman who had died, drowned without a drop of water in her lungs, and—

"What in the name of Christ is this? Did you melt plastic on the…bloody hell. You couldn't even throw a towel over it?"

Ah. That tone required a response. "It was an experiment. The conclusion was informative."

"And sticky! You know, I'm not the unpaid help here, you could make an attempt to clean up your own messes….why does it smell like strawberries?"

Rhetorical questions did not require an answer. Sherlock drew his fingertips across his lips and returned his thoughts to the dead woman. No water, no liquid—

"It's run beneath the cabinet," John sighed. There was a rustle of paper towel, a creak of a cupboard door, shifting movement. An intolerable amount of noise and Sherlock finally opened his eyes in exasperation, unspoken words at the ready to inform John that if he couldn't be silent, he should…

Words slipped into silent breath, unspoken, as Sherlock found an unexpected sight before him. 

Here he was, trying to consider the various conclusions that could be drawn from the brother's shot glass collection and instead, his eyes were locked on the kitchen. Or more specifically, to John in the kitchen. To narrow it further, John's arse in the kitchen, pertly inviting, shifting and moving while John scrubbed out the cabinet. 

Sherlock sighed loudly. Once in the not so distant past, such things would not have been a distraction. Arses were no more interesting than the people they were attached to, which was to say not at all. That this particular one happened to be on the opposite side of John Watson increased its appeal tenfold. A hundredfold. An infinite amount all narrowly circling the warm, sweet curve that had just shifted slightly higher into the air as John leaned further into the cabinet. 

A temptation, a distraction, that rotted his brain as surely as any hour of boredom ever had. That Sherlock found he didn't care, that he had spent far too much time basking in his desire to be near that arse and its accompanying person, frequently in a state of dishabille…it would explain why he was already on his feet, drawn forward as though in a trance. 

A mental note; must research the hypnotic effects of sexual desire. Later. 

His bare feet were silent on the carpeted floor, avoiding the single squeaky tile that was set in the border that divided the kitchen from the sitting room. Close enough that he could hear John muttering, the scraping friction of a sponge as he mopped up the sticky residue of Sherlock's leaking experiment. He drew out of the cabinet abruptly and Sherlock froze, standing right behind John, who failed to notice him, only rinsed his sponge and ducked back into the cabinet. 

The line of John's body shifted, indicating he was stretching forward, his hips hitching upward a fraction, the angle tilting his hips only added to the temptation. Silently, Sherlock crouched down, cupped his hands around the inviting curves without touching. Denim clung as tightly to John as his own skin, his shirt riding up a bare inch to expose an enchantingly smooth line of pale skin. 

His hands hovered uncertainly. Ah, temptation, he was surrounded by a veritable fortune of riches and had to settle for just one. Should he lean in, mouth that soft, pale skin, lick and suck a bruise of colour into the small of John's back? Or should he grab John's hips, hold him still while he ran his hands over that lushly tempting arse? 

Sherlock was unaccustomed to indecision and yet, somehow, John prompted it into him effortlessly. It was one of his more charmingly irritating characteristics. 

In the end, his arse proved to be a temptation not to be resisted. Still, in the interest of fulfilment, Sherlock split the difference. He leaned in, caught John's hips in both hands and quickly, before he could pull away, sank his teeth firmly into the upper curve of John's arse. 

His reaction was both instantaneous and inspiring. 

First came a loud and painful-sounding thump as John smacked his head into the top of the cabinet, followed by one of the loudest and most creative rounds of swearing that Sherlock had ever been privileged enough to experience. It was certainly lucky he'd taken the time to clean up the more flammable aspects of his experiment or surely John would have burned down their entire flat with his fiery verbal demonstration. 

It was somewhat muffled, some bits lost into the depths of the cabinet, but Sherlock was quite certain he'd heard at the very least the tail end of his rant, "You cunting little tea-bagging wanker! Let me go so I can crawl out and kill you!"

"I don't believe that was your best negotiating," Sherlock observed and kept a very firm grip on John's hips. Not an easy task, he was squirming around and it was rather like trying to hold a buttered egg. A little extra weight seemed to be called for and Sherlock shuffled forward on his knees, pressing his hips against John's backside and settling a hand between his shoulder blades. It was amazing how a little knowledge of leverage could come in handy in everyday life. 

Both swearing and volume increased exponentially and Sherlock closed his eyes, the better to absorb it. John was wriggling his arse against Sherlock's rapidly hardening cock and swearing with unbridled brilliance. The best of all possible worlds. "Hmm, fantastic," Sherlock sighed, unthinkingly. 

It was a glaring moment of proof for several of Sherlock's theories, namely that Sherlock should never, ever stop thinking, not even for a moment. One sigh, one word, and all was lost, as John went utterly still beneath him. He sagged as though his bones had melted, forcing Sherlock to grab at his hips and drag him back to his knees. No, no, no, "No," he whined aloud. "No, you mustn't stop now." He rocked his hips, hopefully. "Call me a cunt again. Call me a maiming tit-headed pig bender, don't stop!"

Useless. John only wilted limply into his arms and Sherlock could only let him go, forlornly, mourning the loss.

"I'm sorry I made you hit your head!" he tried, desperately. "But it was hardly my fault. I was thinking of the case and you were on your knees with your arse right there and I was only responding to the scenario presented to me."

Only silence and Sherlock began to brace himself for not only the inevitable loss of John's warm body against his own but his mental focus for the rest of an interminable amount of time. He'd leaned back on his heels, already resigned, when John finally spoke and the warmth of his amusement was as soothing as a bath, "You do realize that not every situation that involves sex is my fault?"

"It is," Sherlock assured him, with iron certainty. It was.

A sigh, long and heartfelt and accompanied by John scrambling back onto his knees, hips tilting in a fashion that was so utterly inviting that Sherlock was sprawling over him before he even managed to brace himself. John grunted in surprise at the addition of his weight but he took it like the good soldier he was. "Must you always be a kinky bastard?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, shoving up John's shirt in a quest for bare skin. He mouthed at the soft skin at his spine, followed the line of it upward. The most exquisitely complex bones of the human body flexing beneath his mouth, the warm salt of his skin and Sherlock chased it into the cabinet to the base of his skull, John's skull that held John within it. Kissed the back of his head, mouthed the lovely casing of his brain even as John huffed out a laugh, even as he categorised the taste of his shampoo. 

"You're a complete nutter, you know tha—t!" John's laughing words slipped into a startled yelp as Sherlock wriggled a hand into the front of his trousers, squirming it in past the waistband and into the cotton-softness of his underpants. Cotton at the back of his hand and a hot, damp cock at the front, begging for a hand to wrap around it. Conveniently, Sherlock was in possession of one. 

"Christ!" John gasped out, his voice edged in shrillness. Sherlock knew every tone John possessed, knew every pitch, had categorized his emotions through tonality and tenor, a hundred and twelve different intonations and counting. This one was not unique; it possessed no new information about John, and yet, hearing it again, and again, never failed to send a thrill of desire through Sherlock. His I-want sound, his I'm-close tone, his please, please, Sherlock, please, don’t stop, I'm close, I'm—

"Please!" John whimpered and Sherlock nuzzled the back of his head, let John's wriggling and writhing carry him along, his arse rocking back against Sherlock like a goad, a temptation, oh, John was endlessly tempting. Even now, the both of them half-inside a kitchen cabinet, hips rubbing frantically as Sherlock moved his hand as much as he could in the trap of John's trousers.

"John," Sherlock whispered, and he could put so much into a single word. Yes, John, lovely, tempting John, come for me, just like this, yes. And as ever, John understood him, had never needed an interpreter for Sherlock, only slid his knees further apart, braced himself to push back hard, dragging his arse against the hard line of Sherlock's prick and even through two sets of trousers, the sweet, sudden pressure had him swallowing back a cry, his hand going tight as he hunched over John and came. Even his own orgasm wasn't enough of a distraction, the hot pulse of pleasure only a counterpoint to John's soft moan, the hot spill of wetness into the cup of his hand. Sherlock slid his free hand up from the curve of John's hip to circle his chest, holding him tightly; splaying his hand over the place he could feel the hard pounding of John's heartbeat.

Long moments drifted past in a warm, orgasmic haze, only to be disturbed by John shifting beneath him. Verbalizing, normally Sherlock's preferred method of communication, was still beyond him and he could only groan a protest. Surely it was too soon for movement to be expected. 

John didn't seem to be following the same rules of sexual etiquette that had been established during their first encounter because he did, indeed, seem to be expecting movement. "Sherlock," he said, in hatefully clear and composed voice, "You are heavy and I am inside a kitchen cabinet. I don't want to seem needy, but in this case, I need to get up. My knees are bloody killing me."

"There is normally a period of rest after orgasm," Sherlock informed him, on the off chance John had forgotten. 

"I don't give a damn, you've had me crammed in this cupboard like I'm bloody Harry Potter, let me out!"

That gave him a pause. "I was under the impression that you'd never been in a relationship with a man before." Had John not mentioned it because his previous association had been abusive? "John, I never would have thought—"

"Oh, for God's sake!" John pushed back against him with unexpected strength and Sherlock tottered back on his knees, off-balance. It was enough for John to squirm back enough to escape from the clutches of the cabinet and in a flash, he was on Sherlock, his sudden weight enough to send them both to the floor with John on top. 

For a long moment, they were caught in a hard tangle of arms and legs, John's knee dangerously close to the uncomfortably damp crotch of Sherlock's trousers. John had Sherlock's hands pinned down quickly enough, their fingers tangled together, and if Sherlock hadn't fought him off as best as he could have, well, some conclusions might not be forgone but Sherlock could certainly deduce what would happen with John on top of him, holding him down. 

The warm mouth at his throat certainly supported that deduction. 

"You smell like strawberries," John murmured, his breath damp and sweet against Sherlock's skin. Sweeter still was the edge of his teeth, biting the thin skin over his Adam's apple gently. 

"From the experiment," Sherlock reminded him and he had to close his eyes as John bit just a little harder, his tongue soothing the tiny pain he'd caused. 

"Mm, yes," John was moving lower, kissing a path down to Sherlock's collarbone. His fingers flexed hard, tightening as Sherlock tested his grip. "Just what were you doing that required strawberries, anyway?"

"Experiment," Sherlock repeated, gasping as John punished him with another bite. 

"What kind of experiment requires strawberries?" John's mouth was as insistent as his words, leaving what would surely be a necklace of bruises for Sherlock to wear to their next crime scene. It was good that he'd established his preference for a scarf early on. 

"That one." He bit his tongue as John shifted back up, pressed their mouths together fiercely. He wasn't about to reveal to John that he was working on a chemical formula for a hypoallergenic, flavoured lubricant that did not use artificial additives and as soon as he discovered why it had exploded after his first attempt, John would be able to reap the benefits. Such was the ordeal of genius. 

John seemed to have lost his train of thought somewhere along the time he started unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock could easily have reversed their positions. John's grip was getting sloppy, distracted, his mouth softer, his tongue coaxing against Sherlock's and he could have rolled them over, pinned John to the floor, and done any number of things that John could not have prevented. 

He didn't. This was a distraction, a terrible one, drawing his attention from his case, sending his thoughts tumbling into absurd experiments that had nothing to do with the work. It was an interference, a disruption…and John. Sherlock let himself be held down, let John kiss his way through and into Sherlock's plummeting thoughts, and indulged in his own personal distraction. 

-finis-


End file.
